


Taking the Waters

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aquaphilia, BDSM, Breathplay, Canon Era, Community: bbcmusketeerskink, Episode: s01e09 Knight Takes Queen, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Water Sex, Wet Clothing Kink, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How to explain that it's the <i>water</i>, somehow, that's doing this to him? Not just her, not even in that sleeveless gown with her hair loose and her feet bare; but that the central motif of his fantasies is the water itself, moulding to her form as it takes her, golden hair streaming out behind her, gown floating like gossamer against the blue."</p><p>Aramis has some inappropriate fantasies. Athos helps.</p><p>Kink Bingo fill: wildcard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking the Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=1524413) kink meme prompt.
> 
> If possible, please discount the fact that Aramis _does_ sleep with Queen Anne later on in the episode – otherwise it lends an unintended foreshadowing to what is just supposed to be some happy water-based porn.

Aramis looks down at the ornate gold cross in his hand, fingering the gilt edgework thoughtfully. As he turns it in his fingers it catches the high afternoon sun, the flash of white light in his eyes leaving him momentarily dazed.

He had the best of intentions, he really did.

While he'll admit to having a taste for risk when taking lovers, even he had realised that Athos and Porthos were right: that allowing himself to become sweet on the Queen would be a _thoroughly_ bad idea.

Even though she is undeniably beautiful.

And clearly unsatisfied in her marriage.

Even though she would almost certainly be sweet on him in return, were she anyone other than a monarch.

But she is nothing less than his sovereign; and he accepted this token of her in return for his service (because what higher honour could there be than to serve his Queen?), and wears it round his neck to show his devotion, neither encouraging nor expecting anything more.

And there it should have ended. Would have ended, were it not for this mission.

It had sounded idyllic. A full week by a lake in the countryside, nothing but the sound of birdsong and the companionship of his brothers-in-arms to fill his days, acting as personal guard for Her Majesty while she takes the waters.

Which she does three times a day, dressed in nothing more than a thin, pale blue gown, bare-shouldered and hair curling loose to her chest. Looking far too much like a woman, and not like a monarch at all.

He only made the mistake of watching her once, before he realised how deeply and utterly _fucked_ he was and made sure he was always otherwise occupied thereafter; but the image is indelibly imprinted on his mind all the same. Her bare feet as she stepped into the shallows, following the slope of the lake bed as her body was slowly submerged. The water lapping first at her ankles, then her calves, climbing up her thighs as the train of her gown pooled out behind her, caressing every curve –

He managed then to tear his eyes away from the sight of her, too immediate, too _real_ even from such a distance; and looked desperately round for something to occupy himself. Of course, the four of them were just sitting around in the middle of the fucking _woods_ , and short of starting an unnecessary fire he couldn't think of a thing.

He made the mistake of catching Athos' eye; and the other man raised an eyebrow at him in silent curiosity, enquiring as to the cause of whatever appallingly transparent expression must have been on Aramis' face.

 _Fuck_ , he thought, looking away guiltily, _I am so fucked._

He went to piss, in the end, which proved significantly more difficult than it should have.

He decided then that he wouldn't watch her again, and that that would be the end of it; but a day and a half later, he's forced to admit to himself that he's rapidly becoming obsessed. Every time he slips into a daydream (which is often, because there's _nothing_ to do here) she's there in his imagination, the image of her playing over and over in his mind, in a merciless loop. Time after time, walking into the waters... and then rising from them again.

He hasn't actually watched her emerge from the lake. Between the risk of scandal should he be seen and the risk to what remains of his sanity, he would never dare. But in the privacy of his own head, he's powerless to stop the thoughts.

He sees her as his Lady of the Lake, come to beguile; her gown turned transparent as she emerges from the water, clinging to every curve of her body as revealingly as if she were completely bare. Thousands of droplets glittering on her golden skin, rolling down her neck to pool in her bare collarbones, disappearing into the cleft of her –

He curses inwardly as he feels himself starting to harden. Not _again._

If he could just splash some cold water on –

 _Don't think about water. Do_ not _think about water._

He looks up to find that Athos is watching him again, with a steady, assessing gaze; and he turns away just as quickly, getting abruptly to his feet and circling the edge of their encampment, hoping the movement will clear his head.

A flash of azure catches at the corner of his eye like temptation.

Aramis can't sleep that night, turning over and over on his bedroll trying to get comfortable, taunted by Porthos and d'Artagnan's regular breathing beside him. Unable to stop his traitorous imagination.

This time he and his Queen are in the water together, her in her robe and he in his shirt, both soaked through. He bows his head to lick droplets of water from her bare skin, touches her through the drenched fabric of her gown, her nipples tightening beneath his fingers as she moans and presses her chest into his hands.

He reaches down under the water to gather up her skirts, reaches a hand underneath them –

The picture dissipates as Porthos lets out a sudden snore, followed by a snuffling noise; and Aramis rubs at his forehead in frustration.

This is ridiculous.

He's hard _again_ , for what must be the fourth time today, and there's no privacy here at all. For a moment he considers stepping into the woods to give himself some relief; but dignity wins out, he's not that far gone just yet.

Aramis looks over to where Athos is sitting at the edge of their encampment, overlooking the royal tent and the lake beside it, his leather-clad back silhouetted against the night sky; and for a moment he envies Athos his cool-headedness, his constancy, where Aramis himself is all volatile emotion and indiscriminate desire.

Some days he wonders how they work. On others, _if_ they work.

"Can't sleep," Aramis murmurs as he plonks himself down next to Athos, as if it isn't obvious; wrapping his arms around himself and shivering in the chilly night air, belatedly wishing he'd thought to put on his doublet first.

The lake below them glitters black and silver in the night, and Porthos and d'Artagnan are still sleeping.

Aramis leans tentatively against Athos' shoulder.

He's braced for rejection; but Athos surprises him, shifting against the pressure and leaning back on his hands, bracing his arm behind Aramis' back, and allowing Aramis to lean into his body. As much as Aramis could hope for in the way of an embrace, given the circumstances.

He's never sure of his place with Athos. He never has been, really; his usual charm's ineffective, his advances more often than not are gently, kindly rebuffed. The all-too-rare instances Athos allows himself to be loved like the sun emerging from behind clouds, to bathe him in sudden warmth and light.

It's frustrating and utterly foreign; and Aramis feels as if he could never grow tired of it.

"What is it?" Athos asks softly, as Aramis tucks his shoulder gratefully under Athos' armpit, resisting the temptation to rest his head on Athos' shoulder.

He almost doesn’t want to tell him for a moment; until that intense, searching gaze meets his.

Even in the night, Athos' eyes still manage to look like water.

"I can't stop thinking about her," Aramis whispers; aware of the weight of his words, even when spoken to Athos. "I've tried – truly I have, and it was alright before this damned mission, but then I watched her walk into the water –"

He stops short; because how to explain that it's the _water_ , somehow, that's doing this to him? Not just her, not even in that sleeveless gown with her hair loose and her feet bare; but that the central motif of his fantasies is the water itself, moulding to her form as it takes her, golden hair streaming out behind her, gown floating like gossamer against the blue.

Aramis sighs, and leans his head against Athos' shoulder at last for a long moment, closing his eyes. "I can't stop it," he mumbles, unable to explain any further, hoping he doesn't need to.

There is silence, for a long moment; and Aramis would swear he can sense the exact point Athos' thoughts move from considering to speculative.

"And if it were not her at all, but someone else?" Athos asks, tone carefully neutral – and Aramis' eyes snap open again in shock. "Who accompanied you down to the lake, so to speak."

Aramis sits bolt upright, and stares at Athos. "You're suggesting –"

Athos is regarding him steadily, but Aramis knows him well enough to see the suppressed emotion in his expression; and it seizes him with a rush of something he couldn't name.

"Tomorrow morning," Athos says, voice dropping even lower, in a way that makes Aramis want to say _hang tomorrow morning_ and just wrestle him to the ground right here and now, consequences be damned. "There's another lake the other side of this hill, to the east. We'll tell the others we're going to see if there's anything worth hunting."

Aramis gasps as Athos' other hand presses without warning to the bulge in his smalls. "Try to control yourself until then," Athos says in clear finality, his eyes once more on the royal tent below; his mouth curving in a small half-smile, for Aramis alone.

Loving Athos is an art; and Aramis sometimes feels like one of the alchemists of legend, their first discoveries little more than fumbling in the dark. Sometimes saying or doing the right thing without understanding how, and finding gold in his hands.

* * *

The second lake turns out to be about half an hour's walk, and a miniature version of the first: Aramis would estimate it's about twenty feet across, with a matching shallow beach on the north side that gradually slopes into water of a deep, penetrating blue that doesn't look as though it belongs anywhere so prosaic as France.

They are nearly silent throughout the journey, Aramis finding his normal chattiness is nowhere in evidence. Instead he's almost overwhelmed by the sense of Athos at his side, the physicality of him.

He imagines the two of them swimming naked, writhing together like dolphins. Athos' head falling back into the water, his hair fanning out around him in a halo as Aramis wraps his hand around –

Athos clears his throat.

Aramis flushes guiltily, realising he's stopped at the mouth of the woodland path, and has been gazing into the waters, seeing the two of them there; and that Athos knows exactly what's going on in his mind.

Well, it's not his fault he's always had a very visual imagination.

"Whatever shall I do with you, Aramis?" Athos remarks, as casually as if he's discussing the weather. "How do I keep you under control?"

It's humiliating, to be spoken about as if he's an errant child who can't control himself.

It really, _really_ shouldn't be arousing.

Aramis' mouth is already opening, ready with a smart reply; but at one look from Athos he closes it again, it being clear that he isn't required to give an opinion.

"While it is our current mission to safeguard Her Majesty," Athos continues, not quite looking at him, "I'm sure you are well aware that as a soldier, your first _duty_ is to your commanding officer. In the absence of Captain Tréville, that being me. Thus I expect to remain foremost in your thoughts... and in your heart."

Aramis looks at Athos in shock. In all the time they've been doing... whatever this is together, this is the closest Athos has ever come to what Aramis believes to be a declaration of his feelings.

It seems completely out of the blue; and the uncertainty tingeing Athos' expression only serves to confirm Aramis' instincts.

That uncertainty passes over Athos' face as swiftly as an autumn cloud, of course; and a moment later his lip curls in a faint half-smile, equivalent to a full-on smirk from anybody else.

"And if it appears that your duty has become somewhat confused when faced with... _temptation –_ " Athos drawls the word as if he's trying it out, which Aramis decides should not be as fucking sexy as it is – "then I am prepared to take _any_ corrective steps necessary."

Aramis' heart leaps then, at the promise in those words.

"And what would I do to evidence my unwavering devotion to the one who commands me?" he murmurs.

Athos half-smiles once more; not in triumph, but with the easy confidence that Aramis finds so irresistible.

"Take your clothes off."

Aramis' fingers are already at the buttons of his doublet before conscious thought catches up; and he starts to strip efficiently. Athos is not watching him, but removing his own leathers; and Aramis glances over at him from under his lashes, wondering what exactly Athos has in store for him.

Once Athos is down to shirt and smallclothes, he stops; then turns abruptly away from Aramis without a word and walks down the beach – into the water.

Aramis' mouth is suddenly dry, his cock pounding now in his smalls as he realises _exactly_ what Athos is doing.

He forgets he's supposed to be removing his clothes, hands falling forgotten to his sides as he watches Athos' retreating form, entranced. Determined to memorise every detail of the scene played out before him; resolved that it will be this man he imagines from now on.

Athos' bearing is as poised as any royal's: his chin raised and shoulders back as he steps into the water, his customary slouch nowhere in evidence. Aramis' eyes are drawn inexorably to the waterline where it laps at Athos' ankles, before rising over his calves to his knees as he advances, the legs of his smallclothes, his muscular thighs, the tight arse that Aramis longs to get his hands on again. Inch by inch, the water claiming him, delineating that splendid frame as intimately as Aramis has himself with fingers and tongue.

With the water up to his waist Athos slows a little, his progress through the lake becoming more difficult. His shirt-tails are already submerged, the fabric billowing out around his body just as the train of the Queen's robe had, hiding the shape of his torso for now, at least.

As the water reaches his armpits Athos dives forward at last, the curve of his back the last thing to break the water's surface as he disappears into the depths.

The lake gradually stills.

The air around Aramis feels suddenly close and tense; and he remembers belatedly that he's supposed to be taking his clothes off.

Just as Aramis drops discarded shirt on top of doublet, Athos' head breaks the surface again, in a shower of droplets; bobbing slightly as he finds his footing on the lake bed, hands coming up reflexively to brush the hair out of his eyes.

Then – at last – Athos starts to emerge out of the water, inch by enthralling inch. The water falling away to reveal his soaked-through shirt, plastered transparent to the planes of his body.

It's just as good as his fantasy of the Queen – _no_ , it's even better; because while Aramis would die for his Queen without hesitation, Athos is a brother to him, Athos is lover and family and commander, and he would die for Athos with joy in his heart.

Athos is _his_ , at least here and now, and Aramis can have him.

As the waterline passes over Athos' hips, Aramis realises he can see _everything_ ; and the desire that was building in him all the while is immediate all of a sudden, at the sight of Athos' body through his transparent linens, hard just from Aramis watching him.

Aramis' need is pulsing in him, streaming from him, crying out to be sated. To follow Athos into the water, and to lose himself in the depths.

He strips off the rest of his clothing as quickly as possible, getting his foot stuck in his boot and almost falling over in his haste, before dashing into the water himself.

Athos is standing and waiting for him, hands on hips, drenched and dripping; and as Aramis approaches, he's hit again with sweet wanting wonder at the fact that he gets to have Athos, gets to touch him like this. Gets to _know_ him, when Athos holds himself so remote from everyone else.

Athos raises an eyebrow in a way that Aramis could only describe as _exquisite_ ; and he doesn't hesitate for a moment to take Athos in his arms.

Athos kisses commandingly, Aramis decided the first time they did this together, he kisses like a leader; and on the all-too-rare occasions when he's granted this, Aramis has become adept at pushing back just enough not to give away how thoroughly he wants Athos to lead him.

Though this being Athos, Aramis undoubtedly gave himself away long ago.

He reaches up to touch Athos' body through his shirt, running his fingers over the wet fabric almost reverently. Athos' muscles stiffen and his chest heaves as Aramis circles the pad of his forefinger over an already tightly-peaked nipple, the only outward sign that Aramis is affecting him.

Apart from the obvious, of course.

As Aramis drops his hands to the waistband of Athos' smalls, his wrists are caught in Athos' hands, halting his movements.

Aramis' first instinct is that something's wrong, and he frowns up at Athos in surprise; but as he fully takes in Athos' expression, apprehension is replaced with pure anticipation, and not a little hope.

Could it be...?

"I propose a game," Athos says, voice low and confidential; and Aramis' already-hard cock stiffens even further as he realises that _yes_ , yes it is.

"I'm going to hold you under while I touch you," Athos continues, in that factual, detached way he has that makes his will seem as inevitable as any of the natural cycles; that makes sheer need slam into Aramis like an ocean tide. "You may come up for air, but I will only touch you while you're under."

"Yes," Aramis breathes, feeling half-dazed already with the mere idea of it.

"If you need to, pinch my wrist and we stop entirely," Athos says, hand coming round to caress the back of Aramis' neck, squeezing slightly as a shiver runs down Aramis' spine. "Otherwise, you will hold your hands behind your back."

Athos puts his other hand on Aramis' upper arm, and manoeuvres him around until he has his back to open lake. He feels a momentary fear seize him at the thought of those unseen depths, imagines himself falling backward; and leans into Athos' chest for a moment, drawing comfort from him, not caring that Athos' skin is clammy and chilled under the wet linen.

"Ready?" Athos says in his ear.

"Yes."

Then Athos' hand moves to Aramis' head, and pushes him down.

Aramis instinctively starts to panic as he folds to his knees; but he realises quickly that Athos has judged this well – _of course he has, this is Athos_ – and if he tilts his head back, he can keep his mouth and nose above water. He clasps hand to wrist behind his back as Athos kneels next to him.

Athos says something then, but there's water in his ears, and Aramis just shakes his head.

Athos smiles slightly and raises an eyebrow, asking _ready?_ , and Aramis nods.

The hand on his head taps _one, two, three_ , before it pushes him down and under.

The submersion's a shock at first, and Aramis takes a moment to settle his breathing before he opens his eyes. It stings, but it's worth it as through the dappled, distorted blue, Athos' hand in its billowing sleeve reaches out to wrap around his erect cock.

Aramis makes the mistake of gasping with the pleasure of that first touch, air bubbling involuntarily up from between his lips, and he imagines Athos is smirking to himself somewhere above the water. _Can't afford to do that,_ he reminds himself, gritting his teeth and keeping his lips carefully sealed together as Athos slides his hand slowly but firmly down his shaft, pressing into the base of his cock, exactly the way he likes it to start.

It's all too soon that his chest starts to feel tight with the need for air; and he pushes up against Athos' hand, still holding him down. It takes a full second for Athos' hand to relax enough for Aramis to be able to break the surface again – slower than he knows Athos' reflexes to be.

He doesn't know if it's the lack of air or the control that's being exerted over him that makes him feel almost dizzy with arousal.

He just about has time to suck in a lungful of air before Athos pushes his head back down; and then Athos' hand is back on his cock, sliding his foreskin steadily up and down, a rasp of his thumb over the head that makes Aramis buck his hips uncontrollably.

The friction's perfect, he decides, less slippery than oil but much better than being touched dry; and it's slowly maddening, Athos taking seemingly longer each time to react to the pressure of Aramis' head under his hand, though that could just be the lack of air distorting his perception.

God knows he doesn't _want_ to come up for air. He wants to keep on being touched, wants to do well for Athos, to be good for him. He wants to give Athos anything he desires just because it is Athos who desires it of him; and he desperately wants the release he's coming so close to achieving.

When he thinks he can't stand it any more, his lungs burning with the need for air and his orgasm so, _so_ close, Athos ducks down under the water and takes him in his mouth. It's more than he could have hoped for, it's hot and it's perfect and it's _Athos_ ; and then he's coming so hard he forgets himself entirely, forgets not to gasp, and he sucks in water as the last of his air bubbles up through the blue; and he chokes and splutters, hand coming up to pinch at Athos' wrist even as Athos sucks him through the aftershocks.

Athos releases him immediately, and he kneels up, head breaking the surface to suck in great gulps of air, coughing up lake water, even as he's still riding the high of one of the strongest orgasms he's ever experienced.

Athos is there, hand on his shoulder. "Alright?"

"I'm alright," Aramis confirms in between coughs, voice coming out rough. "Just took on a bit of water there."

As Athos pulls him to his feet, Aramis leans in and kisses him without thinking, needing to be close to him, needing to show his appreciation the best way he knows how. The taste of his come is a pleasant surprise in Athos' mouth; and from the way Athos leans into him and puts his hands on Aramis' waist as he might with a woman, instead of pulling away, Aramis thinks that it would be dangerously easy to get used to this.

"That was delightful," Aramis says with an easy smile, but studying Athos carefully with his eyes. He can't be sure, but he thinks he could be reading something hesitant, uncertain in Athos' expression, and he wants nothing more than for Athos not to entertain a single doubt about what they do together. "The only thing it lacked was your own release."

Athos gives him an amused look. "Fortunately for you, then, I have something already in mind."

But instead of providing an explanation, he encircles Aramis' wrist with his hand, and leads him back to the lake's edge, where the water laps gently at the beach. "Lie down."

Aramis lies down on his back in the shallows as requested, looking enquiringly up at Athos, not sure what to expect. Surely Athos isn't going to try and fuck him, not here in the water?

As soon as Aramis thinks of it he wants it desperately, though, sees it sharp and clear in his mind's eye: they're at the ocean now, Athos lifting Aramis' legs over his shoulders and thrusting into him as the tide washes over them where they join, waves breaking over his chest, submerging him over and over as Athos fucks into him to the rhythm of the sea.

This water is calm, though, and when Athos climbs on top of him and holds his wrists with one hand, using the other to unlace his own smalls and push them down, it's so his beautifully stiff cock can push against the dip between Aramis' belly and the hollow of his hipbone.

Athos is looking somewhere past Aramis' ear as he ruts, pinpoint concentration on his face; and Aramis leans up to mouth at his neck and shoulder, feeling deliciously used, as if he's offering up his body for Athos' pleasure alone.

Surely Aramis' hand would be better around Athos' cock, though. Surely.

Aramis pushes with his right hand against Athos' grip. "Let me?"

Athos looks at him then, and the intensity in his gaze is too much, like looking into the sun; and at the same time Aramis wants to drink in every moment of attention Athos gives him, and knows he will never be sated.

"Beg me for it."

"Please," Aramis replies immediately. He's shameless with Athos, he knows it and he's never cared less; wants to give him everything he could ask for without reluctance or playing the coquette. "Let me touch your cock, let me pleasure you, please..."

Athos' pupils dilate even further, and he bites his lip. "Do it," he growls, releasing Aramis' hand; and Aramis pushes down between their bodies to grasp Athos' cock.

"I want you to take me to the ocean," he murmurs, as he strokes Athos with practised ease, Athos' cheek pressed against his, "and fuck me in the water, with the waves breaking over us, breaking over my head so I go under and under, and come with you inside me and your hand on my cock, please..." And Athos shudders above him, spilling over Aramis' stomach with a groan, and dropping his head to Aramis' shoulder.

Aramis pulls his other arm free of Athos' grasp, wraps his arms around his back and pulls Athos down into his chest; just wanting to hold him for a moment, before it's time to return to camp and to their lives. Before Athos resumes his habitual distance, and all the private emotions that only Aramis sees are lost again, subsumed into his depths once more.

* * *

As they leave the water and return to the piles of clothing they'd abandoned on the shore, Aramis discovers that Athos' price for indulging his fantasies is that Athos gets to wear Aramis' dry linens for the rest of the day.

Leaving Aramis with one wet shirt and one wet pair of smallclothes.

After the morning's events, however, Aramis feels so warm, cheerful and full of the joys of love inside that he decides Athos could have named almost any price and he would have gladly met it. Even though having to put on and walk around in wet clothes is a frankly disgusting thing to do.

Fortunately it's turning out to be a hot day, and Athos' soaked shirt will dry on him before long. The smallclothes are slung over Aramis' arm on top of his doublet, because he has _some_ limits; though he's not sure his groin sweating in bare leather is that much better.

Aramis' shirt looks better on Athos than it has any right to, the grey a perfect complement to his pale skin and blue leathers; and as Aramis sneaks a glance at him, he wonders idly for a moment if he could persuade Athos to keep it.

Probably not, things being what they are.

If Aramis is lucky, though, Athos may just be willing to wear it to bed for him occasionally.

"Will the others believe that we didn't see a single rabbit, do you think?"

"I don't know. Have you given them reason not to?" Athos counters immediately.

"Of course not," Aramis snaps, a little hurt. He was only trying to make pleasant conversation, and to Athos it seems to be just another thing to be paranoid about.

It's unpleasant to be reminded how precarious his relationship with Athos sometimes is, especially after such a pleasant morning.

He expects silence, after that; what he doesn't expect is a hand on his shoulder, as if in apology.

"I am only concerned for our position," Athos replies, looking straight ahead still, eyes shaded under the brim of his hat. "I trust nobody, including them. Even including myself."

Athos is right, after all; though Aramis likes nothing less than being reminded of it.

"You can tell them that my heavy tread scared all the game away, if you like," Athos offers, briefly squeezing Aramis' shoulder.

"And then you got angry and pushed me in the lake?" Aramis replies with a grin.

Athos smirks. "While you were wearing my shirt?"

"You could give it back," Aramis points out.

"Not until mine's dry. We'll figure something out," Athos finishes; and Aramis hopes for a moment that he's not just talking about the shirts.

"At the ocean?" he asks, suddenly serious; and the smile he receives in return is soft and tentative, and fills his heart with hope.

"Perhaps."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Affusion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600946) by [AgarthanGuide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgarthanGuide/pseuds/AgarthanGuide)




End file.
